


Lose Your Head, Lose Control

by junkster



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Shower Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkster/pseuds/junkster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger knows it's going to be a bad day when every single interviewer asks him whether he's going to leave again. John and Nick try to distract him by rekindling something the three of them haven't had together for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose Your Head, Lose Control

**Author's Note:**

> (This is a work of pure fiction - no events depicted within are true to life (as far as the author is aware), and this is written simply out of love.)
> 
> **I wrote this as an anon fic on tumblr for the lovely[Julia](http://jamieaiken919.tumblr.com/) \- it was supposed to be a drabble and turned into almost 20,000 words! Since I wrote it over the course of about two weeks, on and off, please excuse any random changes of POV and that sort of thing - it's hard to keep track!**

He doesn't notice them at first, watching him as he beats out the most intense, furious rhythm, head down, hair in his eyes, lost in his own world. They could hear it as soon as they walked into that section of the studio building, almost tribal in its drawing power, calling them closer. And he looks like he’s been playing there, alone, for hours.

"Fuck," Nick utters quietly, entranced. 

Roger tilts his head back as he ends it, dropping his arms, chest heaving, sweat darkening his hair, eyes closed. He flexes one of his hands, dropping a splintered, broken drum stick with a clatter, and John’s eyes widen at the blood on his palms, spatters of it up the inside of his left arm. 

_“Fuck_ ,” he echoes softly.

Roger glances over towards the doorway and doesn’t seem surprised to see them, just holds their gazes for a long moment, breathing hard and fast, eyes dark. The collar of his black shirt is open and his skin has a warm sheen of sweat under the cotton. 

“Getting something out of your system?” John asks, keeping his voice soft as though talking to a wild animal. He starts moving closer and Nick follows, eyes locked onto the blood dripping along Roger’s fingers. Roger follows his eyeline and looks down at his hands without even a flinch, more just a detached curiosity.

It’s late afternoon on a Saturday and there’s barely a soul in the studio, which means no one notices them as Nick and John steer Roger in the direction of the nearest bathroom. 

In the small, white-tiled room, John feels the heat coming off him in waves, pouring through the worn cotton of his shirt, feeling muscle and bone under sweat-damp material. Blood swirls pink down the sink plug hole, a pinched notch forming between Roger's brows. He bites his lip as Nick gently drips water up over the insides of his wrists with careful fingers. 

"What were you thinking about back there?” John asks, standing behind them and watching their reflection in the mirror above the sink.

“Nothing,” Roger answers quietly, shivering noticeably as Nick’s fingers trace the sinews in his wrists. “I was just...in the zone.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” John says, sliding both arms around Roger’s waist and reaching up to unbutton his shirt slowly from behind. “It was amazing, just...”

“Violent?” Nick suggests with a slight quirk of a smile.

John nods in agreement. “Violent.”

Roger closes his eyes, his breathing almost back to normal but his pulse still racing. As his shirt begins to fall open they can see the heavy swell of his heart under his ribs.

John hooks his fingers into the back of Roger’s collar and tugs gently, pulling until the shirt slides over his shoulders and down the length of his arms, catching around his elbows where the sleeves are rolled up. He’s trapped, now, his hands still in Nick’s grip, his arms held still by the material John twists against his back. He opens his eyes, looking down as the blood begins to creep back into the creases of his palms.

John prompts softly after a long pause: “What’s wrong, Rog?” 

Roger shivers again as John’s words ghost across his bare shoulders, where the sweat's cooling quickly against his skin. Nick’s started the tap again and he bites his lip as the running water stings in the cuts on his hands. The worst is where the broken stick sliced into his left palm, between his thumb and index finger, and he swallows thickly at the flap of skin that really shouldn’t be there.

“Might need stitches,” Nick murmurs.

“It’s fine,” Roger utters quietly. “I’ll wrap it up.” 

“ _We’ll_ wrap it up,” John corrects. “Idiot.” 

“Hang on here and I’ll get the stuff,” Nick says, stroking a hand lightly over Roger’s forearm as he leaves. 

Roger watches him go in the mirror and starts to bring a hand up to swipe at his hair. He hesitates, aborts the movement, and uses the top of his right arm instead, nudging it against his forehead. John takes pity and helps him, long fingers brushing at dark strands.

“You didn’t answer me,” he murmurs, sliding his free hand across Roger’s collar bones, long fingers tracing the delicate bone and the vulnerable, soft hollows behind. Roger drops his head forwards, the vertebrae at his nape pressing at his skin. 

“I’m tired, John. Really just...tired. Bad day.”

“Bloody journalists,” John mutters, aligning his thumbs vertically on either side of Roger’s nape and pressing in gently, fingers curling lightly around his throat. “What did they say?”

“How’d you know I was doing interviews today?”

“Because Simon was supposed to be doing them and I know he fobbed them off on you.”

“He’s got ‘flu, John.”

“A likely story,” John says with a smile. “Anyway. Tell me what they said to get you so worked up.”

Roger shakes his head, eyes firmly closed as John’s thumbs massage his neck. “It wasn’t just them.”

“Tell me anyway.” 

“There were five of them, one after the other. Three of them wanted to know if I felt like I’d deserted you, back in the day. One wanted to know if I felt like I was now ‘riding on your coattails’, and the other wanted to know whether I was thinking about leaving again, because she thought I looked tired.”

John’s hands still, long enough that Roger opens his eyes and glances at their reflection. John’s looking at him and his gaze is dark and angry but wonderfully sympathetic. 

“Bastards,” he utters simply, and instead of digging his thumbs back in he just strokes them slowly across Roger’s shoulders. “ Wankers . Fuck, talk about stirring things up. Wish I’d been there.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Roger says, shaking his head. “They used to ask me worse things, ‘back in the day’. I think they were just pissed off to get me instead of Simon.”

“It  _does_ matter. They’ve got no right to pretend they know anything about you.” 

“It was just a bit much, all at once, that’s all.”

“And you thought beating the crap out of your kit would help with that?” 

Roger smiles wryly at that, curling his right fist slightly under the running water. “No one ever said drummers were clever, Johnny.” 

John smiles this time, digging the balls of his thumbs deeply back into the muscles of Roger's shoulders. "Rhythm sections are much maligned, don't you think? Since I know for a fact that neither of us are as stupid as we look." 

Roger laughs, a quiet rumble in his chest.

“Are you going to let me go?” he asks, amusement rich in his voice. John lowers his hands into the sink to turn the tap off and carefully works at the shirt sleeves, sliding them down to Roger’s wrists. “Turn around, first, and I’ll think about it.” 

Roger does as he’s told, turning in the small space between the sink and John’s body, his dripping wet hands trapped at his sides by the trailing shirt. He tilts his head back slightly to meet John's gaze with big, dark eyes.

And that’s how Nick finds them when he returns, Roger’s hips jutting so close to John’s, one of John’s big hands cupping the side of his throat gently and the other curled around the sink as though keeping him in place, though running looks to be the last thing on Roger’s mind. Their eyes are fixed intently on each other and Nick is struck, not for the first time, by the chemistry that exists between the band’s rhythm section.

He watches them converse through eye-contact alone, and it’s only when he shifts his weight where he stands that John turns his head to greet him with a smile. There’s enough lingering fire there to ignite something of his own, but he does his best to extinguish it in the face of the crimson droplets scattered around Roger’s feet. He holds up the first aid box, snagged from the kitchen, and lays it down on the counter by the sink.

He refrains from saying anything about their compromising position, but can’t help a slight smirk as he reaches down to unbutton and loosen one of the shirt cuffs to set Roger free. John, reluctantly, gives Roger a couple of extra inches of breathing room and the tension in the air fades to a faint simmer. 

“Let’s have a look at that chunk you’ve taken out of the left one,” Nick says, lifting Roger’s hand up into the light and investigating the damage. John winces at the mess.

"If it doesn't stop bleeding by tomorrow morning, I'll go and get it stitched up," Roger promises, catching the look on John's face. 

John shakes his head with fond resignation and takes the gauze handed to him by Nick. "You'd have thought someone in your line of work would care a bit more about their hands." 

"It'll be a scar, at the most - it's not about to drop off." 

John retaliates by swiping the alcohol wipe across Roger's palm, making him grit his teeth. "It will if it gets infected, eh?"

Nick smiles at the resulting yelp as Roger kicks John in the shin. “You remember this one?” he asks, brushing a thumb across the back of Roger’s hand, where a thin white scar bisects the bone and sinew. “When those idiots stormed the stage?” 

“Fuck, I’d forgotten about that,” John says in revelation, leaning against Nick’s shoulder to inspect the evidence. “They sent your hi-hat flying and the edge clipped you on the way down.”

“Bled everywhere, didn’t it?” Nick remembers. “You stripped your shirt off and wrapped it around your hand and told us to keep going.” 

"Nothing changes," John remarks, going back to winding a bandage carefully around Roger's other hand, holding the gauze in place underneath. 

“Are we going to start comparing scars?” Roger asks with a raised eyebrow. “Cause I happen to know exactly where to find them on  both  of you.” 

"You just keep quiet," John muses as he concentrates, "and let us sort you out."

Roger, funnily enough, does as he’s told, falling silent as he watches them in the mirror. This isn’t the first time they’ve patched him up. It’s not that he has a self-destructive streak or anything like that; more that he sort of forgets about himself in the heat of the moment. Calluses always softened after a rest and then his skin would take a beating the first time he overdid it. No big deal. At least, he doesn’t think so, but Nick and John are both shooting him surreptitious, searching glances.

It’s been a while since he’s had both of them touch him with such concentration, every brush of their clever fingers like sparks along the insides of his arms, and he wants to reassure them; needs to ease those worried glances. 

“I am okay,” he promises quietly. “Sometimes I just have to...” he trails off, wishing he could wave one of his hands to express himself, but Nick just says simply: 

“It’s okay, Rog. We understand.”

Roger meets his eyes with a brief, wordless nod and sees John’s doing the same in his peripheral vision. John, who's just tying off the end of the bandage and humming ‘The Boxer’ to himself, which yeah, Roger can see why. With his shirt off and this crisp white strapping on both hands he looks like he’s about to go ten rounds. “Thanks, Johnny,” he says softly, crooking his elbow to bring that hand up for inspection, marveling at the neat work.

John beams at him, moving to lean back against the sink, pressing close up against his side. “Good job you’ve laid most of your parts down already, isn’t it?” 

Roger flexes his fingers slightly and says defensively: “I could still play, if I had to.” 

“Yeah,” John agrees, then presses his forehead to Roger’s temple to add pointedly: “But you don’t. So you won’t.” 

"I won't," Roger promises, hyper-aware of every move John makes as he slings an arm around his shoulders and watches Nick intently.

Green eyes flicker their way as Nick finishes working on Roger’s hand, then away again as he presses his thumb lightly over the patch where the stick embedded itself. There’s no immediate stain of blood through the bandage at least, and he looks back up to meet Roger’s eyes with a faint smile. "I think you'll live to tell the tale. Just try not to move too much for a while, okay?" His eyes flick John's way, a shared look of sly amusement. "Let me and John be your hands, hm?"

“Thanks,” Roger says earnestly, reaching out to him. Nick’s smile grows as he remembers what he's just been told, simply hooking an arm around Nick’s neck instead, pulling him in for a hug. 

“Pleasure,” Nick remarks, laughter in his voice, his own hand wavering in indecision for a second before curling around Roger’s ribcage, his fingers moulding into the grooves of bone and warm skin. He closes his eyes, breathing in antiseptic and hair product and sweat and loving the familiarity of it.

It’s as his fingers curve around the other side of Roger's ribs that Nick feels suddenly very aware of the rise and fall of the body under his hands; of just how tenderly he’s touching him. He slides one hand across to spread flat in the centre of Roger’s chest, feeling the slow, steady, swelling thump, thump of his heart, drawing him in. 

“Thanks,” Roger repeats softly, and Nick doesn’t just hear it, he  feels  the rumble of that voice everywhere they touch.

He tilts his head up until their cheeks are pressed together, Roger's faint stubble rasping against his skin, and closes his eyes again as one of John’s hands moves to the side of his head, thumb curling in front of his ear, palm against the line of his jaw, long fingers moulding to the curve of his skull, unbelievably gentle. It's been so long - too long - since they've done this, all three of them just held each other and breathed together and anticipated.

Roger makes a quiet, cut off sound in his throat and Nick pulls back enough to see that John's other hand is sliding slowly up and down Roger's spine, fingers stroking every bump and valley of vertebrae. Nick feels the tiny shiver that makes goosebumps break out across Roger's arms, and he meets his dark eyes with a small, understanding smile. Roger's lips part as if he's about to say something, to make a joke in this intense silence, but he only manages a ragged exhalation.

Nick knows this John well - they both do. The predatory John, who appears behind closed doors and down dark alleyways and the shadowy corners of clubs. He’s bold and lithe and devastatingly appealing, all loose-limbs and hunger, and impossible to ignore. Nick lets his eyes wander for a moment, to the dark hair that’s curling slightly at his nape, messy and perfect, to the point where the buttons of his white shirt are open to the sharp ridge of his collar bones. John just quirks a smile at him.

Roger's eyes are closed now and Nick watches as he swallows, adam’s apple sliding in his throat. Struck with overwhelming affection - not unusual when it comes to these two - he reaches up to stroke a thumb across a perfect cheekbone, looking at the dark shadows under Roger's eyes in appraisal. Lashes flicker and then warm brown eyes are gazing at him, and Nick lifts his hand to Roger's hair, fingers twisting it into an appealing muss with the infinite ease of practise.

“Fuck, that’s pretty,” John mutters, watching them like a hawk. “Nick, would you just kiss him already?” 

Nick smirks and Roger shakes his head in amusement, glancing up at John with a smile. “Always the impatient one, weren’t you? Some things never change.” 

“Can you blame me?” John retorts, waving a hand at both of them. “Look at you. Christ.” 

“Yeah,” Roger says, turning his full attention and that mischievous smile back on Nick with intent. “I’m looking.”

Nick holds Roger's gaze for a long moment, enjoying that strange mixture of desire and full on fucking  love  he feels for these two; the way his heart picks up the pace and physically aches at the same time. He leans in and, just to annoy John, veers off course and presses a kiss to Roger's jaw instead, hearing the laugh from low in Roger's throat and the curse from John at the same time. 

"I'll take over if you don't hurry the fuck up." 

"Sod that," Nick murmurs against the corner of Roger's mouth, enjoying John’s impatience.

It's Roger who decides to move things along, tilting his head to nudge Nick into a soft, lingering kiss, everything falling silent again as they just breathe together, lips touching but not moving, ratcheting up the unbearable anticipation. John swallows this time, an audibly dry click in his throat as he watches them, one of his hands still resting gently at the back of Roger's neck, the other gripping the counter with white-knuckle tension.

Nick kisses Roger's lower lip softly before licking his way into his mouth, a flash of tongues sliding visibly between them before they're kissing with the ease and familiarity of practise, slow and deep and hungry. Roger's head tilts to one side, Nick's hands gripping either side of his hips where his dark jeans have slung low and the bones jut against Nicks' fingers. John stares, devouring every inch of them, Nick, fully-clothed and not a hair out of place, and Roger, shirt off and hands bound and hair a mess.

They are light and dark, reserved and wild, mouths moving together with the intuition of intimate knowledge. 

"Fuck, I missed this," he murmurs, watching as Roger's need to touch becomes too strong and he lifts one of those strapped up hands, the tips of his fingers stroking Nick's cheek gently. The rasp of bandage against his jaw startles Nick out of the kiss and he pulls back just enough to meet Roger's eyes, both of them breathing hard as their gazes dart from lips to eyes and back again.

"Me too," Nick agrees softly, emphasising it by brushing another quick kiss to Roger's lips. "God. I think it's even hotter than ever." 

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder?" John offers, to which Roger just says honestly: "It couldn't get much fonder if it tried", and Nick gives him one of those genuine, warm, gorgeous smiles. 

"You remember when we used to just do this for hours, homesick or lonely or just passing the time? We'd play spin the bottle just for an excuse to snog each other."

"Yeah," Roger remembers with a smile of his own. "Just indiscriminately taking it in turns. Speaking of which..." he slides a glance in John's direction, "I think John wants to ravish you now." 

Nick raises an eyebrow at John. "Well he can start ravishing whenever he wants." 

"It's difficult when there's only an inch of air between you two," John says, at which point Nick takes a reluctant step back and retorts: 

"Don't remember it ever stopping you before."

There's another spark of tension when John moves suddenly - the first time he's really moved since lounging back against Roger's side - and he closes in on Nick's space with consummate ease, hands taking hold of either side of Nick's head as he leans in and down, the kiss hot and open-mouthed and desperate in its intensity. John is tall enough to block Roger's view of the whole damn thing, so he moves too, a few steps letting him watch them side-on, Nick's face tilted up, their eyes tight shut.

John’s always been a tactile person, always a good choice to go to whether you’re after a hug or something stronger. His hands are always making and cementing his point with a clap on the shoulder or a rude gesture or an expressive, unintelligible sweep of his arm, his long, elegant fingers distracting to the point of cruelty. Roger’s found himself entranced by those fingers in many an interview, but, in deference to the PR people, he's always managed to stamp on the urge to lean over and take one in his mouth. So far, anyway.

He’s entranced by the cant of Nick’s head, and the movement of John’s jaw, and the fact that every glimpse of tongue between them is like a punch to his gut. A  good  punch, like a shot of adrenaline. It’s a good few minutes before John pulls away, but even as he does so he leans in to press one last soft kiss against Nick’s lower lip, a gentle gesture that somehow seems even more sexy than the main event. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment more, then Nick smiles and the atmosphere breaks.

“I will never not find that unbelievably hot,” Roger remarks, getting a grin out of both of them. “D’you practise that in front of mirrors or something?” 

“No,” John muses, “but I seem to remember there have been mirrors involved in the past...but then, you’d remember that, wouldn’t you?” 

Roger smirks in return as John turns his way, the spark of recollection in Nick’s eyes proving he remembers it too. 

“My turn,” Nick says firmly, pushing John in Roger’s direction. “My turn to watch, now.”

Roger cocks his head as he regards John thoughtfully, caught in the full-beam of that predatory, hungry look now. He sees it all - John trapping him up against the counter, arms barricading him in, dominance in every move he makes - and decides to flip it. Reaching out, he hooks the tips of the fingers of one hand into the waistband of John’s jeans and tugs him closer, before turning them and backing John up against the sink.

John looks down at the hand at his waist, where Roger’s knuckles press against the plane of his belly, and smirks, enjoyment flaring in his dark eyes.He reaches out to curl a hand around the back of Roger’s neck, light and casual, and pulls him gently closer. “Hi, Rog,” he says softly, looking down at him with big, dark, fond eyes. 

“Hi, John,” Roger responds, brushing his free hand against the welcoming glimpse of collar bones at the top of John’s white shirt.

If his fingers had been free he’d have been inclined to curl them into the soft cotton and yank, send those buttons flying and leave John open to him. As it is, he just lifts that hand to cup the side of John’s face and watches John’s eyes flicker shut, his jaw twitching as he grits his teeth. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, pressing one of his own hands over Roger's. “I think I’ve got a new kink.” 

“The strapping?” Nick guesses, leaning his hip against the counter to watch them. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Should I be worried that you’re turned on by me being bruised and battered?” Roger asks in amusement, sliding his hand slowly along the length of John’s sharp jaw and watching the crease form between John’s brows as he concentrates on the sensation. 

“I think I just like it when you’re unpredictable,” John admits, eyes flashing back open, pupils huge and devouring. “I like it when you’re wild.”

“And vulnerable,” Nick adds softly, in contrast, his eyes dragging slowly down the length of Roger’s arm, where the bandages accentuate the lines of his wrists and hands, but inhibit the strength there. 

“Hell, you’re just a turn-on,” John says, leaning in to press his forehead to Roger’s. “You’re our turn-on.”

“I’m not the unpredictable one,” Roger reminds them, sliding his hand up from John’s belt and under his shirt, caressing a stripe across John’s belly and making him curse softly. “It was usually me keeping an eye on you two, remember?” 

“Maybe that’s why it’s nice to return the favour,” John reasons, voice low and rough with want and tension. He tilts his head and brushes their lips together in a barely-there kiss. “Maybe that’s why I want you so much right now.” 

"Are you saying you don’t want me the rest of the time?” Roger asks, a dark smile quirking at his lips as he tuts. 

John huffs a soft laugh against his skin. “Not possible, Rog. It's just that, apparently I have some kind of protective-streak-kink that's making me want to not let you out of mine and Nick's sight for a week.”

“I wouldn’t be averse to that,” Nick says, then drums his fingers on the counter, “but in the meantime - who’s taking their bloody time now?” 

“Yeah, Johnny, aren’t you sick of just looking, yet?” Roger challenges with a smile, tracing his thumb lightly over one of John’s hipbones. 

“Fuck, no,” John says simply, drawing a finger down the side of Roger’s nose and across his cheek, then down along the length of his jaw before brushing his thumb just under his lower lip. “I  like  looking.”

That pressure against his mouth finally snaps Roger's restraint. "Speaking of kinks, do you mind...?” he murmurs. 

John cocks his head in question, but all becomes clear when Roger takes hold of his wrist as best he can and presses a kiss to his knuckles. John’s pupils explode outwards when his index finger disappears into Roger’s mouth, hot and wet and  so hot . 

“Fuck,  _fuck_ ,” he gasps as Roger’s tongue slides against his skin and then he sucks and John’s knees almost buckle underneath him.

Nick lets slip a similarly breathy curse as Roger looks seductively up at John from under dark lashes, smirking around his fingers as John slips another into his mouth. John manages to tear his own eyes away just long enough to shoot Nick a helpless look as if to say ‘are you seeing this?!’, then he’s carefully sliding his fingers out past Roger’s teeth and leaning down to kiss him instead.

Breaking away from John to tip his head back, Roger opens up his throat to Nick’s kisses and closes his eyes as Nick nuzzles under his jaw with a scrape of teeth and a slick swipe of tongue over his pulse. Nick meets John there and they abandon Roger for each other for a moment, kissing over his shoulder, slow and deep. 

"Exactly," John breathes between biting lightly at Nick's lower lip, "how long have you had that little kink, Rog?"

Head tilted back on Nick’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the ceiling, Roger answers casually: “Oh I don’t know. Forever?” 

“And you’re only just now telling us about it because...?” 

“Because I never found an opportune moment to say ‘John, can I lick your fingers?’?” 

“As if I’d have said no," John huffs.

Pressing his forehead to the side of Roger’s, Nick says softly in his ear: “Any other kinks we should know about?” 

“None I can think of off the top of my head, but the night’s still young,” Roger reasons, and Nick meets John’s dark eyes with a smile. 

John returns it and lets his gaze wander across Nick's face, mapping every wonderfully familiar detail. 

“We need to get out of this bathroom before I get any harder,” Nick sighs, and he just knows Roger is grinning up at the ceiling.

“Wait, you don’t do sex in bathrooms anymore?” John asks, looking at him askance. 

Nick takes a leaf out of Roger’s book and boots him in the shin. “Let’s just say I’ve come to appreciate the finer things in life, and the choice between fucking you up against this sink or fucking you on a bed seems really simple these days.” 

John smirks and leans back against the counter, the picture of debauchery, clearly imagining it in his head. “D’you think we can make it that far without making a scene?”

“Where’s my shirt, anyway?” Roger muses, lifting his head up off Nick’s shoulder, his neck clicking in protest. He spots it hanging on the door handle, silently praises John’s respect of clothing for not chucking it on the floor, and moves to grab it. 

“D’you have to put it back on?” John asks, eyes fixed on the small of Roger’s back, where muscle shifts over bone as he walks. “Much as it looks great on you, I kind of like you out of it.”

“Sorry, mate,” Roger tells him, sliding it back onto his shoulders. “I’m not walking out of here half naked and strapped up.” He starts fumbling with the buttons and Nick moves to help him, batting his hands gently out of the way. 

"Here, let me," he says, starting at the bottom and working his way up, making sure to touch every inch of warm skin he can in the meantime. By the time he reaches Roger's collar they're gazing at each other again, and Nick closes the gap to kiss him softly.

“Think we can get out of here unseen?” John asks, turning around to glance at himself in the mirror, straightening his shirt critically. “Seemed to be pretty deserted out there earlier.” 

“Yeah, there’s no one here,” Roger says, smiling as Nick smoothes a hand down one of his arms to dispel a crease. 

“Then...let’s go,” John says dramatically, reaching for the door handle with a flourish and ushering them out. The corridor outside is, as predicted, empty. “Actually...where  are  we going?”

“My flat’s probably closest,” Roger answers, grabbing his coat off the couch near the front door and sliding into it, warm black wool that lets him shove his hands into his pockets and mostly hide the bandages that could give the paparazzi a field day. John and Nick pluck theirs off the hooks in the hallway closet and John wraps a striped scarf around his neck. 

"It was snowing out there earlier," he says. "Should we walk or get a taxi?" 

"Let's get a taxi," Nick advises, glancing at Roger. "Safer."

* * * * * * * *

The snow’s started to settle on the ground and it takes them a while to get to the nearest taxi rank, during which time a comfortable silence descends on them and they simply walk side by side, enjoying the muffled sounds of the city. After a while, as they stand and wait to cross the road, John unwraps his scarf and winds it around Roger’s neck, the wool warm and soft. Roger glances up at him with a fond, grateful smile and John gently brushes some of the snowflakes out of his hair.

* * * * * * * *

Roger’s flat is quiet and private, everything they want. As soon as they close the door it’s like the world outside doesn’t exist, and it’s just them and the warm, homely familiarity of the place. They hang up their coats and take off their boots - Roger sits down on the nearest chair to do his and isn’t quite able to hide the quiet, sharp intake of breath as his hands rebel. John’s there in an instant, kneeling down in front of him, and Roger looks torn between gratitude and amusement.

He opts for the latter and remarks: “God, you move fast.” Reaching for the laces of Roger’s boots, John just smirks, sinfully hot. Nick leans back against the front door, double checking that the locks are in place, and finds himself watching them again. John looks up as he works and the tension starts to ease upwards once more, especially when Roger stands up and John's still down there on his knees, looking up at him with that smile.

Nick doesn’t want to break into the moment but he’s all too aware of the crimson patches on Roger’s palms, like some kind of stigmata. “You’re bleeding again,” he says quietly.

Roger holds his hands up and doesn’t look particularly surprised, presumably because they’re hurting like hell and he’s just choosing to ignore it, like he does. “I’d give you a hand up,” he says to John with a smile, “but uh...” 

“Don’t worry,” John rolls his eyes. “My knees aren’t that ancient yet.”

“Which is surprising, considering how much time you’ve spent on them,” Roger shoots back, and John laughs, getting to his feet. 

“I love it when you’re a bitch.” 

“Only for you, John, only for you,” Roger says, then looks towards the kitchen down the hall. “I tell you what, I’ll go and have a quick shower, since I pretty much took a bath in sweat earlier, then we’ll re-wrap them, okay? In the meantime you two go and make some tea, make yourselves at home.”

In the kitchen, small and spotless - aside from the mug of almost-finished black coffee Roger had abandoned there that morning - Nick puts the kettle on and leans back against the counter, as John perches against the edge of the table. “We’re so lucky,” Nick muses, “that we’re still able to do this with each other.” 

That small statement has a multitude of meanings, about them, about Roger, about life in general, but John nods in understanding. “I know. I know. It's unbelievable, isn't it?"

“And we need to take care of him,” Nick says quietly, inclining his head towards the hall that leads to the bedroom. “Because he never tells us when he needs anything.” 

“No,” John agrees, eyes darting that way. “He goes and plays ‘til he’s got no skin left on his hands, instead.” 

“Yeah, well. We all have our self-destructive moments, don’t we?” Nick says, and John looks back at him, sharing a glance that says a hundred, silent things.

"Sod the tea." John says."Maybe we shouldn’t leave him to his own devices.” 

Nick cocks his head. “You know, this place has got one of those walk-in shower rooms...” 

Seconds later they’re down the hall and coming to a halt at the bedroom doorway, both stopping still as they watch the silent figure before them. The blinds are closed, one of the small bedside lamps on, and Roger’s just standing by the bed, slowly trying to unpick the knot at his left wrist. He is what Nick had said earlier - vulnerable.

Low slung jeans, bare feet, bandaged hands, patiently trying to do it all on his own. He looks small there, alone, and it brings John’s protective streak back with a vengeance, not to mention Nick’s, and they have to restrain themselves from bursting in. Roger lifts his wrist to his mouth and gets the knot undone with his teeth, and as he unwinds the bandage slowly he mumbles a soft curse at the mess underneath. Shadows emphasise the line of muscle in his forearms, the tendons under his skin.

It’s too much for Nick, who raps his knuckles lightly on the doorframe and waits for Roger to look up before saying quietly: “Can we help?” 

Roger turns to face them properly, the shadows stretching across his body and showing up the dark of his eyes and the edge of his jaw. He’s starting to look a little defeated again, the bloody bandage trailing from his arm towards the pine-wood floorboards. He flexes his right hand absently and his wrist clicks loudly in the silence.

There’s something eerily still about him, his shoulders low, his body tense with the kind of  tiredness you can’t just sleep off. Nick takes his silence for permission and moves into the room, reaching down to pull the last of that bandage and gauze away and drop it into the nearby bin. John’s behind him, one of his arms winding around Roger’s neck and the other around his waist, pulling him close. 

Roger tries to protest: “John, you'll kill me if I get blood on your shirt...” 

"Fuck the shirt."

Roger just sighs and crosses his wrists behind John’s back, effectively hugging him but still leaving his hands free for Nick, who’s started work on the other bandage. “You sure you're feeling alright, John?” 

“Shut up, Rog,” John utters softly, one hand burying itself at the back of Roger’s head, delving into dark hair and stroking his scalp in a slow rhythm. “It’s an old shirt.” 

Roger huffs a laugh against John’s shoulder and presses his forehead to the curve of bone and muscle.

“How’s it looking back there, Nick?” John asks, rubbing his thumb up and down Roger’s nape slowly. 

Nick replies distractedly: “Roger’s hand or your arse?” 

“Well, whichever’s caught your attention more,” John shoots back. 

Roger flinches in his arms suddenly and Nick says grimly: “There, that was the last bit. It was sort of stuck. Sorry, Rog.” 

“No problem,” Roger says against John’s shoulder, breath gusting warm through the thin cotton.

Nick stands up straight and moves around to sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at them in appraisal. “You sure you’re up for this?” 

Roger lifts his head up off John’s shoulder and looks at him, though he addresses Nick: “By ‘this’ you mean...?” “

Any of it. A shower. Me and John crashing your place. Me and John...and you.” 

Roger smiles and John mirrors it, saying: “I think what Nick’s trying to say is, are you too tired and banged up to have hot sex with us? Because you could just watch, you know.”

“I didn’t invite the two of you here to sit and watch you get it on,” Roger retorts dryly. "Entertaining though it may be." 

“Actually,” Nick adds, “I think we know from experience that none of us are very good at ‘just watching’.” 

“True,” John says, curling a strand of Roger’s hair at his around his index finger. “And who can blame us?”

“Meanwhile,” Roger says, “if you’re feeling helpful - you’re both a little overdressed for a shower.” 

“Right,” John agrees, unwinding his arms from around Roger and turning to look at Nick, extending a hand down to him. 

“He’s right,” Nick echoes with a smile, accepting the offer and letting John pull him to his feet. “May I? he asks, reaching out for the buttons of John’s shirt. 

“You need never ask,” John says, hands sliding up under the hem of Nick’s t-shirt.

Roger moves away to lean back against the wall, the best place to watch as Nick and John strip each other with a mini-struggle to overpower each other and, well, John’s pretty much always going to win that one. They’re down to their jeans by the time he gets fed up and just grabs Nick’s wrists in his big hands, holding him still. Nick, rather than being irritated, just looks incredibly turned on by it. Roger really can’t blame him.

“Hey, Rog?” John says, eyes fixed on Nick. “Come over here and take over while I go and turn the water on, make sure it’s hot.” 

Pushing himself away from the wall, Roger moves closer and, as John slinks off into the ensuite bathroom, finds himself the winner of one of Nick’s most alluring smiles. Slender fingers slide open the top button of his fly before grabbing the waistband and yanking, every other button popping out of its loop in one satisfying movement. Nick's knuckles brush against his skin.

They look amazing together. That's what John's thinking as he stands there with his hand under the water, waiting for the temperature to even out. Nick has Roger pressed up against the wall just outside and his hands are framing Roger’s slim hips, thumbs fitting perfectly under the jut of bone on each side. Roger steps out of the pool of his jeans that lie crumpled on the floor and kicks them away before turning back to Nick, who's eyes are raking slowly up the length of his body.

They don't have any qualms about being naked in front of each other - those days are long, long gone, if they'd ever existed at all - so John is not surprised when the two of them walk into the bathroom without a stitch on, totally unselfconscious and totally on a mission to get him naked too. Roger's kind of helpless, with his hands the way they are, but he holds John's eyes steadily as Nick does that same old trick with John's buttons, ripping them open and tugging with a certain impatience.

When Nick finishes manhandling him out of his clothes, John looks up to see that Roger is already under the water; water which is running red across the white tiled floor, and that is  not  good. On the other hand, the water sluicing down the elegant curve of his spine is  _unbelievably_ good, and for a long moment John is conflicted by the image - gorgeous and battle-scarred, standing there in nothing at all with his head down and his palms up, all golden skin and ribs and closed eyes.

John moves to stand behind him, winding both arms around his waist and pressing up close against his back, feeling hot, wet skin and the thud of Roger’s heart through his chest. Nick comes around to stand in front of both of them, his hands wrapping carefully around Roger’s wrists and pulling him forwards, urging both of them forwards, until Nick’s back hits the tiled wall and Roger hits Nick, and finally the three of them are sandwiched together, nothing between them but hot water and steamy air.

“Fuck,” Nick says, his hands palm flat against the tiles as though he’s restraining himself from touching. “Fucking fuck...” 

John laughs, his forehead pressed to Roger’s shoulder, watching the scatter of water around their feet instead of looking at the overwhelming sight in front of him. Roger just stays quiet, breathing slowly, feeling everywhere that they touch, feeling John’s heart against his back, and watching Nick’s eyes close, dark lashes against his pale skin.

He leans in and latches on to Nick’s collar bone, sliding his tongue slowly into the soft triangle just above before biting down on the ridge of bone and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Nick’s eyes flash back open and he tilts his head back, exposing his throat as he grabs the back of Roger’s neck. “Christ,” John utters, before moving in and following Roger’s lead, leaning past him to attack Nick’s other shoulder, closing his eyes as he licks along hot, wet skin.

Roger trails kisses up Nick’s throat, underneath his ear and across his jaw, until Nick pulls him up for a real kiss, desperate and deep. John slides his long fingers across the sensitive nerves in Roger’s sides and Roger shivers, giving a slight roll of his hips that in turn makes Nick curse into the kiss. John presses his lips to the side of Roger’s temple and gives a little thrust of his own, Roger’s left hand flexing in response, the backs of his knuckles trailing slowly down John's side and thigh.

When they break the kiss, Roger drops his forehead to Nick’s shoulder to catch his breath, and Nick strokes a hand through his hair, gently tucking wet strands back behind his ears. 

“You alright?” he asks softly, addressing Roger but meeting John’s eyes as they listen to the hollow breaths. Roger hums something in the affirmative and lifts his head slowly to meet Nick’s lips again. He kisses him, long and slow, conveying his gratitude and love and every other thing causing butterflies in his stomach.

“Turn around,” Nick murmurs against his mouth eventually, both hands curving around Roger’s shoulders. “I think John wants to ravish you now.” 

Roger smiles at the echo of his own words and does as he’s told, pulling away to turn around in the protective circle of their bodies and curling the tips of his fingers around the back of John’s neck, gazing up at dark eyes before bringing him in for an equally gentle kiss, until John encourages his tongue into something hot, and hungry and open mouthed.

Behind them, Nick locks his arms around Roger’s body, sliding his hands over whatever wet skin he can reach as he watches them. John presses his hands flat against the tiles on either side of Nick’s head, effectively trapping him and Roger within the barrier of his arms, and Nick takes the opportunity to run his own hands slowly down either side of John’s chest, over his ribs and down to his hips, sharp and elegant. John makes a soft, gorgeous sound in his throat and pushes hard up against Roger.

Roger turns his head to the side to press a kiss to the inside of John’s elbow, tongue sliding over the delicate blue veins, and John takes the hint. Bringing that hand back between them, he watches, rapt, as Roger smirks and takes one of his fingers to the knuckle in his mouth, swirling his tongue into the ‘v’ of soft skin. John just gazes at him, unblinking, pupils big enough to turn his eyes black.

“You taste less like guitar strings now,” Roger muses, kissing John’s knuckles, mouth sensuous and hot.

“Um...good?” John mumbles, brain disconnected from his mouth as he just watches Roger worshipping his hands. 

“Very good,” Roger assures him, kissing the side of his wrist before leaning up to find his lips again, and John just goes with it, falling into it with ease. The lights are dim in there, just like in the bedroom, and it makes all of them glow and fade with shadows as they move, and it’s hard to believe it’s snowing outside when it’s so warm in there, their own little world.

There’s a snap and the sudden heady aroma of mint and John pulls back to watch as Nick runs shower gel coated hands over Roger’s body, one high up on his chest and the other low, so low across his belly, forcing Roger’s eyes shut as he leans his head back on Nick’s shoulder and surrenders to it. John feels like his mouth is watering, like if he was in a cartoon then his jaw would be on the floor, because how can they possibly be so attractive to him? How are they still so damned pretty?

Nick’s eyes flicker up to meet his suddenly and it’s like having a shot of alcohol, heat spreading fast through him at the intensity of it. Roger hooks an arm up and back around Nick’s neck and grinds back against him, forcing a quiet rumbling growl out of him. John looks between them and says quietly, voice low: “Let’s just do this, fast, now, because I want to spread you out on the bed and make it fucking last, okay?” And it’s not clear who he’s talking to but they both breathe out an “okay" in firm agreement anyway.

He reaches for the gel and squeezes some onto his palm, rubbing it together between his hands to warm it before stepping in close and wrapping his fist around Roger’s cock, slick and perfect. He grabs Nick’s left wrist with his other hand and brings it around to join in, both of their hands curling one behind the other and making Roger let fly an impressive array of breathy, beautiful curse-words. Nick hooks his free arm around Roger’s waist, holding him tightly in case his knees decide to buckle.

“God, you’re hot,” John mutters as he watches Roger’s eyes intently. “So fucking hot.” 

Nick presses the side of his head to Roger’s, saying softly in his ear: “He’s right. You really are.” 

Roger doesn’t answer, his brow creasing as he closes his eyes and just holds on to both of them. Being trapped between them gives the illusion of him being small and delicate, almost, and all John wants to do is keep him between them for as long as they can, safe from anything else they can’t control.

His hands look raw and painful, now, and although he looks desperate to touch them he’s still trying to restrict it to just his finger tips and knuckles. John leans in to find his mouth, needing to be closer to him, needing to hear every gasp and every slick slide of his and Nick’s hands. Nick’s breathing hard too, trying to resist just rutting up against Roger, his smoky eyes catching John’s when he breaks away from the kiss. It's like their silent pact, an agreement to keep Roger in the middle.

“Come on,” John murmurs, leaning in against Roger’s ear, biting his lip when the backs of Nick’s fingers brush briefly across him. “Come on, just let it go. We’re going to lay you down on the bed and make it last all fucking night, I promise...” 

Roger mumbles an affirmative and moments later his body tenses and he’s coming, because god, he’s only human and John’s voice never fails to set every nerve alight. He bites his lip and drops his head back on Nick’s shoulder, his body loose-limbed and open and perfect.

Nick holds him as he catches his breath, stroking a hand slowly across the soft skin below his ribs, feeling the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he recovers. He looks at John, who runs his fingers slowly through Roger’s wet hair, a heady mixture of love and lust in his eyes. For a long moment they just stand there and breathe together, watching each other in wonder.

When he can breathe normally again, Roger slips out of Nick’s arms and from between the both of them, and he smiles when John grips one of his wrists tightly. “I’m going to sort out my hands. When I come back I want to see you two getting off, okay? It’s your turn.” 

And then he’s gone, gracefully slipping away and leaving John and Nick to direct all of their attention on each other. “You heard what the man said,” John says, cocking his head with a grin of challenge.

There’s only a second or two of sizing each other up before John moves in for the kill and pushes Nick up against the cool tiles, driving their hips together, a beautiful grind of pelvic bone that almost,  _almost_  hurts. He wraps a hand under one of Nick’s thighs and lifts, opening him up to every press and thrust of their hips. 

Nick winds his fingers into the hair at the back of John’s head and pulls him down for a kiss, mumbling into it: “What’s the plan, then?” 

"Plan?" John asks distractedly.

"Yeah," Nick says, hooking his leg around John's back to press his heel into the small of his back. "Plan." 

John lowers his head to bite the curve of Nick’s shoulder gently. “Stay in bed?” 

“I mean specifics, idiot," Nick admonishes, scratching his nails lightly down John's back and making his hips stutter. "What do you really,  really  want to do?” he asks, breathless suddenly as John wraps a hand around both of them. “Do you want to fuck Rog?" he asks, nuzzling a kiss to the soft skin under John's ear. "Or do you want it the other way around first, him inside you? God, I’d pay to watch that and fuck knows I’ve seen it before. The way you two look at each other, so intense, and even though...even though you’re the big lug that you are you just know he’d be so slow and careful with you, dragging it out until you’re so desperate for him just to make you come...”

It takes John a moment before he can form the ragged words: “Shut the fuck up, Nick, for god’s sake...” and then he presses their lips together, just in case Nick doesn’t take the hint. 

Nick just chuckles into it, the rumble of it reverberating between their chests. And then, when John decides it's time to retaliate, he pulls back and says with a smirk: "S'been a while since you came all over me..."

Nick laughs as he slides a finger slowly down John's breastbone. "Won't be, soon."

With his back to the door John doesn’t see Roger prowl back into the room, silent and shadowy - only Nick catches sight of him. He meets Nick’s gaze with big, dark eyes and smiles, slow and wicked, and it signals the end for Nick, who leans his head back against the wall and looks at John through his lashes. “Let’s call it now,” he breathes, and then he’s gone, he’s coming, and the sight of it is apparently enough for John too, who presses their lips together hard and they kiss each other through it, John sliding his hot, slick hand across Nick’s belly, a brief stripe that’s washed away in an instant. 

Nick's pulse is fierce enough in his throat to make him feel dizzy and light headed, and he keeps an arm around John's back as they try to catch their breath, leaning heavily on each other under the hot water.

Nick sighs, a deep, heart-felt, contented thing, and strokes his fingers through John’s hair slowly. “Roger’s watching, you know that?” he says, shooting the man in question a small smile and getting a tip of the head in acknowledgement. 

John mumbles something incoherent, then lifts his head and clarifies: “He always did have a voyeuristic streak.” He heaves a sigh of his own, gives Nick’s cheek one last caress, then turns around just as Roger lobs them both a towel each.

He’s perched on the counter now, dried off and back in his black boxers, watching them with dark, dilated-pupil eyes. His towel-dried hair is messy and somehow still perfect, and he smiles at them, slight and sexy. He’s managed to re-wrap his hands on his own and the stark white bandages are tight and clean, and he looks more comfortable for it, able to at least touch things lightly again. “That was...” he starts, trailing off as he tries to think of a good enough word.

“Fucking hot?” John suggests for him, casting a predatory leer at Nick, to which Nick just responds with a swipe with the towel. Dodging gracefully out of the way, John moves over to stand between Roger’s legs, curling his hands over his knees with just the faintest, hinting pressure from his thumbs pushing them apart. Roger smiles and leans forwards to kiss him softly, slowly, his hands cupping either side of John's face and making him groan again at the sensation, the rasp against his skin.

“Made some coffee,” Roger murmurs, attention focussed on John’s eyes. They’re almost on a level with his own and that’s unusual enough in itself to catch his interest. 

“Your eyes are pretty,” John muses, apparently on the same wavelength, then he non-sequiturs into: “What happened to the tea?” 

“Thought you might need to keep your energy levels up,” Roger shoots back, running the tip of his thumb slowly along the line of John’s cheekbone. “And if you want pretty eyes, they’re over there.” He inclines his head in Nick’s direction.

Nick flashes said eyes in their direction, green and smokey under the mood lighting. “I think it’s well recorded that I have no issues with being called pretty.” 

“With good reason,” John says with a shrug, tying his towel around his waist and winding his arms around Roger’s middle, hauling him close to the edge of the counter and bringing their hips flush together. Roger leans their foreheads together and presses the palm of one hand up against John's chest, feeling the heat and pounding heartbeat there.

He slides down off the counter and John presses him tightly up against it, reaching down to hold his hips and saying softly: “Deja vu.” 

Roger smiles astutely and then Nick’s there by his side, taking one of of Roger’s hands carefully in his own and one of John’s in the other, linking their fingers together. “You were saying something about fucking me,” Roger says, looking between them with dark eyes, his voice low and hypnotic. “It’s been a while.” 

“It’s been too fucking long,” Nick says, earnestly.

* * * * * * * *

They sit around the kitchen table, warm enough to be in varying states of undress despite the howl of the wind outside. “It’s nice here,” Nick says, running his thumb across the lip of his empty coffee mug. 

“It’s nicer with company,” Roger replies honestly, and Nick smiles at him, warm and genuine. They’ve pretty much reached that level of comfortable silence again, happy just to sit and look at each other and wait.

Roger starts to drum his fingers on the tabletop but stops with a wince. John puts a hand over his. “Stop moving, Rog,” he admonishes dryly, swiping his thumb across Roger’s knuckles. “No more bleeding, okay?” 

Roger nods ruefully and looks at John with a wry smile, eyebrow raised. “You might have to tie me up if I don’t stop.” 

John cocks his head in amusement. “You always used to say you hated that stuff.” 

“Yeah, well. That was then.” 

John looks at him astutely for a moment before saying: “You trust us more, now. That’s why.” 

Roger just holds his eyes, not denying it. 

Nick interjects softly: “Let’s skip the bondage for tonight, hm? Let's just take it slow."

“Yeah,” Roger says, breaking away from John’s heavy gaze. “I was only joking. I’d still hate not being able to touch you.” 

John runs his nails lightly across the back of Roger’s strapped up hand. “And that goes for all of us. D’you remember that night we chained Simon to his bed? Now there’s someone who loves a good pair of handcuffs, am I right?”

There’s a moment’s pause before they’re all laughing, the perfect break in tension, Nick’s head in his hands and Roger’s pillowed on his folded arms, shoulders shaking with it. 

“Ah, that was a good night,” John muses, chuckling into his cup. “I’ve never seen someone go so quickly from outrage to total wanton lust.” 

“Why didn’t we ever do that again?” Roger mumbles into his forearm. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” John sighs. “There’s a lot of things we should’ve done and didn't."

“It just got to a point where it was impossible,” Nick says, propping his head on his hand, fingers scrunching his still-damp hair lightly. “But I wish we’d kept it up. A lot of the time it was those nights that felt the most sane, you know?” 

John and Roger both nod in perfect understanding, memories washing over them. Roger stands up to clear the mugs away, padding barefoot over to the sink. “We were good though, weren’t we? I mean, when we were together it was like we were on fire.”

“Yeah, we were good,” Nick agrees with a smile, eyes running down Roger’s spine. “And we looked good.” 

“We looked  _amazing_ ,” John corrects, his gaze following a similar path. “I wish we’d taped ourselves.” 

“God, that’d be depressing,” Nick shakes his head. “Us being young and beautiful and full of bloody stamina?” 

John raises a disdainful eyebrow. “If you try to tell me I’m not still young and beautiful and full of bloody stamina, I may have to stamp on your foot, Nicky.”

“Two out of three’s not bad,” Nick tells him with an apologetic smile, and John sighs and tilts his head to concede the point. 

Roger turns off the tap and turns to look at them, smirking when two sets of eyes shoot upwards guiltily. Leaning back to deliberately jut his hips in their direction, he tells John simply: “I think you’re even more beautiful than you used to be.” 

John stares at him for a second before uttering: “You are the greatest man alive." 

Roger smiles and looks at Nick. "And you."

Nick has the good grace to look faintly abashed; John just makes it across the room in two strides and gives Roger a hug. “Can I pay you to say that to me every day?” 

“No,” Roger says wryly, “I think once is more than enough for me. You’ll have to just cherish the memory.” 

“But if I recorded it, I could play it every time I want to annoy Simon.” 

“Simon doesn’t need me to tell him how good he looks. Neither do you.” 

John pulls back to look him in the eye. “It’s nice to hear it, though. From you."

“John, you really don’t need to flirt with us anymore, you know,” Nick pipes up from over by the table. “You kind of won us over a long time ago.” 

“I haven’t even  started  flirting with you yet,” John retorts, turning his head to flash him his best come-hither smile. “Anyway, Rog deserves something after calling us beautiful, don’t you think?” 

"Well, you could just say it back," Nick suggests softly. "Since he is." 

"Yes, he is," John agrees, simply. "But I thought maybe we'd show him instead."

“So you want to do it here on the kitchen table or shall we move this to the bedroom?” Roger asks, after a moment’s pause. 

John glances over his shoulder at where Nick sits watching them and tips his head, like he’s actually considering it. “Well, I seem to remember Nick saying he prefers a bed these days, but...maybe later.” 

Roger shakes his head in amusement and slides out from between John and the kitchen counter. He doesn’t say anything, just slinks out into the hall & lets them follow.

John watches him go appreciatively before holding out a hand to Nick and pulling him up, winding an arm around his waist as they go. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Nick muses quietly. “If you’d told me this morning that we’d be doing this later, I’d’ve thought you were mad. More mad than usual.” 

“I know,” John says. “I suppose it’s been simmering for a while. We just needed to be sure we were all back on the same page.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever left this page,” Nick admits, and John’s long fingers curl tighter around his waist.

The bedroom is as they left it, lit with a dim, golden glow and spotlessly tidy. The bed is big, all clean, simple lines and cotton sheets - some pure white, some black - and the wooden floorboards are warm underfoot. Roger has cracked the blind to the side and is watching the snow outside the window, but he turns when they appear behind him and for a moment they just look at each other in appraisal. 

“Maybe we’ll get snowed in,” John says hopefully. "Been a while since I got to spend days in bed."

There’s a long moment of silence as they contemplate this idea, then suddenly Roger’s got that darkly amused smile again just at the sight of them standing there in his bedroom, and then John’s across the room and pressing him up against the wall beside the window and kissing him hard, wanting to taste that smile, wanting to feel it against him before it fades.

Roger lets him take the lead for a few seconds before pushing back, pushing until John has to take a step backwards, and another, and four more until the backs of his legs hit the bed and they go down together slowly, Roger keeping an arm hooked around the small of John’s back to support him, his other hand reaching out for Nick. He doesn’t fall still until he has them both on their backs and he’s kneeling between them, over them, looking down at them with a predatory gaze.

His eyes flick between them and he leans down to kiss Nick, his back curving concave and elegant, one of his hands sliding onto John’s belly and stroking slowly from his navel to his diaphragm, over and over again while he keeps Nick’s mouth occupied. John just tilts his head back against the pillow, closes his eyes and enjoys it, while Nick buries both hands in Roger’s hair to keep him close, groaning softly into the kiss when Roger’s other hand trails slowly from his knee to the top of his thigh.

His hand stops under the towel near Nick’s hip and he pulls back from the kiss to look searchingly into his face. He reaches down and runs a thumb gently across the skin near the outer corner of Nick’s left eye, explaining softly: “Smudge…” a look of concentration on his face until he adds: “There…it’s gone”. 

Nick smiles fondly up at him, stroking a finger around his ear. John has, by this time, turned over onto his side, his head propped on his hand, watching them in interest.

“You’re not the only one who gets turned on by seemingly innocuous body parts, you know,” he remarks to Roger, eyes following the path of his thumb. “If your hands weren’t in shreds I’d’ve returned the favour earlier. Since they are...well, I could talk about your wrists, or your arms, or your shoulders, or your back...”

He sits up and leans in, trailing kisses up the line of muscle in Roger’s forearm, then up to his shoulder and across to his backbone, tongue sliding between the vertebrae at his nape. Roger sits back on his heels and lets his head drop forwards as he closes his eyes, a notch of a frown forming between his brows as one of John’s hands slides down past his hip and under his boxers, palming him lightly before moving back up to stroke his hipbone.

“Fuck,” he breathes, "fuck,  _fuck_ ..." as Nick gets up on his knees and touches his face gently, mapping the straight line of his nose and the sharp jut of his cheekbones. Roger sighs and runs his tongue lightly across his lower lip, over a slight bump where one of them had bitten down on him earlier; an act he can’t even remember happening, let alone who it was. 

Nick watches the shift of emotion across his face, loving the sound of those curses, so full of feeling. Roger has never lost the art of being as cool as a fucking cucumber. Making him open up to them has always been one of Nick and John's favourite challenges; making him feel and making him lose himself. For all that, though, he's always been seriously good at surprising them - seems to take great pleasure in seeing  _them_  lose their cool - so it's a 'two can play at that game' kind of deal. 

Which explains why, just as they're starting to take control, he keeps his eyes closed and asks, voice feather-soft: "How do you want me?", and totally derails them.

“Every single possible way there is?” John suggests dazedly, adding: "Do we have options?" as he meets Nick’s eyes over Roger’s shoulder. 

Roger’s mouth quirks with a small smile. “How many times have you done this, John?” 

John smiles beatifically. "So, so many times. But what I mean is, you should decide this time, not us.” 

Roger 'hmm's' and, deliberately taking his time, starts ticking off on his fingers: "Well...I could get on my knees...I could lie on my back. Or I could...” he meets Nick’s eyes, “in your lap...” 

Nick stares at him helplessly as the image shoots through his mind, but he shakes his head and leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Roger's mouth. “On your back - I want to see your eyes,” he advises, the words brushing against Roger’s lips. 

Roger answers: "Likewise" with a smile as Nick pulls back. 

"You weren't even considering the options, were you?" John asks. 

"Nah," Roger grins. "Just more fun tormenting you that way."

“Well, not wanting to ruin the fun with practicality,” John says, moving to lie back down. “But  who  do you want? Unless you’ve become a lot more hardcore since we last shared a bed, only one of us can do this.” 

Roger shakes his head, curling a hand under one of John's ankles. “Just one after the other. Doesn’t matter who’s first.” 

Nick trails his fingers gently over the pulse in Roger’s throat, looking at him in appraisal. "Are you sure?"

"You know Nick could have me, or vice versa, instead. We're not what you’d call averse to it..." John reminds him. 

"I know," Roger says with a smirk. "And I'll look forward to watching you two, later, believe me. In the meantime - yes, I'm sure, so you'd better get on with deciding who's going first." 

"Such a romantic, isn't he?" John marvels to Nick, then waves a hand at Roger: "Lie down, then. Let's see the goods before we fight it out."

“Go on, you first,” Nick says to John, lying down along Roger’s side with a smile. “I want to watch his face while you drive him nuts with those fingers.” 

“I’ll do my best,” John remarks, moving to lie between Roger’s legs, lifting one to press a kiss to his ankle and the inside of his knee.

“You might have to rummage a bit in the drawer,” Roger tells them, sighing as he relaxes back. “I don’t exactly have much cause to be well prepared for this any more.” 

“Hm. Crying shame,” John murmurs against his skin. “We should remedy that, Nick,” he adds, leaning over to the bedside cabinet. 

“I have no problem with that, John,” is the distracted reply, as Nick runs his thumb slowly up and down Roger’s jaw, feeling the faint scratch of light stubble. “I don’t know why we waited this long, really.” 

“We were waiting for a sign,” John says, pulling out a little bottle of something-or-other and peering at the label.

“And that sign was inadvertent self-harm?” Nick asks, glancing down at Roger's hands. 

“Apparently so,” John muses, showing the bottle to Roger, who just shrugs and nods in agreement. "Fuck! I forgot to say 'hipbones' earlier," John curses, and he leans down suddenly to latch onto the soft skin just above Roger's hip, running his tongue over the sharp bone and sliding his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them out of his way. "I love your hipbones."

He moves, trailing kisses across the flat of Roger's belly, sensitive nerves in his side shivering under his lips. Roger lays a hand on his head, fingertips delving into his hair, rubbing his scalp gently. John stills, just breathing against Roger's skin as he enjoys the sensation. "Not fair," he utters quietly, and closes his eyes when that hand slides down to cup his face, that now all-too-familiar rasp against his jaw.

“Hedonist,” Nick says softly with a faint smile, and John looks up at him with big, dark eyes, and doesn’t deny a thing. He raises his head and presses both thumbs into the hollows of Roger’s hips, tapping a long finger against Roger’s side. “Up,” he says, and Roger does as he’s told, lifting his hips so that John can tug his boxers down and off to be flung over his shoulder haphazardly.

John pulls at his towel and it’s off and gone the same way, and then he crawls up the bed to lie between Roger’s legs, both of them cursing breathily at the meeting of hips and ribs and hot skin on hot skin. He bites down lightly on the sharp ridge of Roger's collar bone, tasting the mint of their shower earlier, and pushes down slowly with his hips, feeling Roger's heart slam against his ribs between them.

“ Fuck , that’s pretty,” Nick says, consciously echoing John’s earlier words. “I wish you could see yourselves.” 

Roger runs his hands slowly down the long, curved length of John’s back, making him hum quietly in appreciation, the vibration travelling through both of them. 

“I wish you could  _feel_  it,” John says earnestly, sucking at the teeth marks he's made in Roger's shoulder. 

"Fuck, John," Roger breathes, his hand sliding up between John’s shoulder blades, his head tipping back.

John slides his tongue slowly over the marks in Roger’s skin, again and again, until Roger’s eyes are closed tight and he’s wrapping one of his legs over one of John’s and arching up against him. Nick curses softly again and John groans a gravelly  _'god'_ , lifting his head to nuzzle a kiss against the quick pulse in Roger’s throat and sliding his hands along Roger's arms to find his wrists, pinning them to the pillow above their heads and holding them there with one, big hand.

The other hand makes its way slowly back down Roger’s body, following the bumps and curves of his ribs and moulding around the soft skin of his side. He lifts his head enough that they can meet each other’s eyes. Roger gazes up at him, chest rising and falling quickly as he squirms in John’s grip, the whole length of his body pushing up against him. There’s no intention of escape - that much is obvious, because they all know he could, if he wanted to - he’s just testing John’s grip.

John smiles slowly at him, dark eyes full of that perfect mixture of affection and hunger. “Will you say it?” he asks hopefully, with another casual press of his hips. “You know I love it when you say it...” 

Roger's mouth quirks in a slight, mischievous smile of his own. “You mean...’do me, John’?” 

“No,” John shakes his head, “not that one.” 

“‘Make love to me, John?’” 

“Ngh. No.” 

“‘I want you inside me, John’?” 

“ _Fuck_ ...” John drops his head back down to Roger’s shoulder. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

Roger laughs, the sound low and rumbling and wonderful between their chests, then he presses his cheek to the side of John’s head and gives him what he wants softly: “ _Fuck_  me, John. I want you to fuck me.” 

John groans quietly again into the crook of Roger's neck, then pulls away as Nick decides to save his sanity by leaning down and keeping Roger's mouth occupied with a kiss, tongues meeting and sliding slowly together, hot and wet and hungry. He licks at the bite mark in Roger's lower lip, pulling back just enough to whisper: "Always such a dirty mouth, Rog..." and smirking as Roger laughs, lifting his head up off the pillow to chase another kiss out of him.

Somewhere lower down the bed there’s the click of a plastic lid flipping open, and Nick feels Roger’s body shift against him before he’s gasping suddenly, pulling back from the kiss as his breath stutters, eyes closed tightly. Nick doesn’t give him time to think, one hand pushing his shoulder down as he presses their lips together again, feeling the strain leave Roger’s body in a rush. He takes just a moment to glance down the bed, meeting John’s dark eyes; John, who is already knuckle deep and watching every twitch of Roger’s muscles carefully.

Roger swallows and Nick’s eyes are drawn back to his throat, then his lips, where one of his teeth is biting down. He lies down alongside him and waits for John to make his next move and for those lips to part again, then presses a hand to Roger’s cheek to turn his head gently. “Okay?” he asks, laying a hand across his forehead. Roger nods under his touch and leans forwards to kiss him again, one of his hands coming down between them, his bound knuckles bumping up against Nick’s chest. Nick curls one of his own hands over it, warm and protective.

Bringing it up to his mouth, he presses his lips to the soft skin on the inside of the wrist of that damaged hand, kissing it once before sliding his tongue over sinews and veins, feeling the quick pulse of blood thrumming underneath. Roger lets out a quiet, broken sound and his body surges, and John presses down on his hip to keep him grounded. Nick keeps moving, trailing kisses along the vulnerable inside of Roger’s arm to the crease of his elbow.

“John, John, John,” Roger mantras, lifting his head up off the pillow to look down at him, eyes fierce, “c’mon, John…” and most of John’s fingers are in already so he holds that challenging gaze for a long, appraising moment, sliding those fingers out and watching before nodding once and settling on his knees, using his hands to lift Roger’s hips slightly, his own eyes meeting Nick’s. 

“Kiss him, Nick,” he asks quietly, then he’s pressing forwards and Roger’s back is arching and Nick is kissing him again, stroking a hand over his sternum to steady him.

One of Roger’s heels slips against the soft sheets and he curls it around John’s back, trying to force him closer, faster, his head tipping back when Nick pulls away to watch his expression carefully. John says his name softly, reverently, head dropping forwards when he thrusts all the way in, his hands still holding Roger’s hips, his eyes closed as he tries to deal with the sensation. Roger just breathes hard, his own eyes closing as Nick’s hands stroke the side of his face, fingers brushing his hair across his forehead. 

“Just give me a minute,” John utters distractedly, lost, to which Roger just huffs a hitching laugh and says: 

“Give  _you_  a minute?”        

John grins at that, a full-on, gorgeous ‘I don’t know how the fuck I managed to get here but I love it’ John-smile, and gives a little twist of his hips, making Roger swear and Nick laugh. “I need a minute,” he clarifies, “because I’m pretty sure that if I open my eyes right now, you probably look so fucking incredible, against those bloody black sheets, that I’ll be gone, alright?” 

“Wise choice,” Nick says, eyes following the line of Roger’s body. “He does look fucking incredible.” He smirks when Roger bats a hand against his chest in retort.

Slowly, his grip on Roger’s hips easing slightly, John opens his eyes and lets them wander up the bed, taking it all in, ending up at Roger’s eyes, fixed on his with enough trust and desire to make his insides flutter wildly. Nick is looking at him too, slightly more restrained but equally full of want, and he moves suddenly, crawling closer and meeting John in the middle, kissing him full on the lips, tongues sliding openly into each other’s mouths with startling intimacy. John brings one of his hands up to bury in Nick’s hair and Roger makes a soft sound of appreciation at the sight, his hips pushing up against John’s with a slow, distracting rhythm.

Breaking the kiss breathlessly, John presses their foreheads together to convey his feelings and gets a flash of a smile in return, Nick pressing a kiss to his jaw before turning back to take Roger’s mouth instead. Roger brings his hands up to hold the sides of his face, the bandages rough against Nick’s skin in a way that is heart-thumpingly erotic. There’s that scent again of antiseptic and first aid kit that cuts through the heavy tension in the air and instinctively kicks off his protective streak again. He softens the kiss, stroking around the curve of Roger’s ear and swallowing his next gasp when John starts moving again, devastatingly slowly.

When he pulls back his gaze darkens as he watches, retracting his hands so that he can simply sit back for a moment and let his eyes wander.

John glances at him in thought before sliding his arms under Roger’s back and lifting him as though he weighs nothing, allowing Nick to move in behind and let Roger lean back against him, sandwiching him between their bodies. Roger’s eyes slam shut at the change of angle, John deep inside him, their hips bruising together. Nick’s green eyes burn into John’s over Roger’s shoulder, saying everything they don’t need to speak aloud. Love smoulders in John’s chest as he and Roger press their foreheads together, like flames licking at his ribcage.

Crossing his wrists behind John’s neck, that strapping rasping softly against John’s pale skin, Roger lifts up slowly onto his knees and tips his head back to rest on Nick’s shoulder as long, strong fingers wrap around his waist from both sides. It’s both of them, touching him and linking with each other, Nick and John needing to feel him move; needing to make him take it slow. He can feel Nick, hard against his back, and soft lips pressed lightly to his nape. They move together, Nick’s hips pushing forwards against him and dictating his achingly slow rhythm in John’s lap.

When he brings his head back up from its resting place on Nick’s shoulder, he finds that John’s eyes are closed, but those dark lashes flicker up instantly as though he knows he’s being watched, and suddenly Roger feels the full impact of his big, stunning eyes, open and looking at him as though he’s something so special.

“You’re gorgeous,” Nick says suddenly, softly, against his neck, as though he knows exactly what’s running through his mind. His arm hooks around Roger’s hip, hand wrapping around him in a hot and tight grip that makes him tense bodily. He closes his eyes again and relaxes into it, reaching up and back to curl an arm around Nick’s neck. 

“Not like you,” he answers finally, breathlessly.

John thrusts against him suddenly, hard and deep enough to gain his attention, and those beautiful eyes pin him with a determination that’s so familiar. “You have no idea,” he asserts, pushing forwards again and setting Roger’s nerves on fire. “You’re one of us. You’re just like us.” 

“He’s right,” Nick says, his hand sliding with every move John makes. “You have  _no_  fucking idea…”

Roger feels like he can’t take it, the heat of them, the slide of skin against his own and the warmth of Nick’s breath against his neck; the pressure of their fingers into his sides and the ferocity and loyalty in John’s gaze. Nick is still stroking him slowly, the backs of his fingers bumping against John’s belly with every motion as they thrust together. John leans in and kisses him, pressing him tightly back against Nick’s chest, filling him with that sensation of suffocating once more; of drowning in their presence, surrounding him so thoroughly.

Leaning past him, John captures Nick’s mouth and Roger can feel the push and pull for dominance on either side of him. He arches his body and John reaches down behind him and Nick makes a beautiful sound of desperate pleasure into John’s kiss, and he’s coming suddenly against the small of Roger’s back with a shudder that sends John right after him, his hips slamming once more against Roger’s, hard enough to leave bruises, his mouth never leaving Nick’s as they kiss through it. Closing his eyes tightly at the sensation, Roger listens to their heavy, panting breaths and swallows, his throat dry and his head spinning, every movement they make sliding hot and damp against his own over-sensitive skin. He’s all too aware that John’s just come inside him and he’s overwhelmed by how fucking  _hot_  that is. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, burying his face against John’s shoulder and shivering hard.

Nick manages to keep holding him up, and his hand is joined by one of John’s, both of them stroking him with a synchrony that makes everything start to coil tightly in his chest. Nick’s lips find a place just behind his left ear that makes him shiver bodily and he opens his eyes again, falling headlong into the depths of John’s focused gaze. There’s a sheen of sweat that glows across the valleys of John’s collar bones, his shoulders set with an endorphine-fuelled energy.

“Come on, Rog,” he murmurs, leaning in to let the words fall against Roger’s lips. “Come on. You need this.”

Fuck, yes, he needs it.

Nick links his hand with John’s around him, and that sensation of unity pushes him finally over the edge. He manages to hold John’s gaze until he just has to slam his eyes shut, letting go, Nick moulding up against his back as he comes, so hard, over their hands and himself, hot and hard and incredible.

Exhaustion hits him ten seconds later, and he becomes a loose tangle of limbs in their arms, slumping forwards against John’s chest and focusing on breathing in and out, in and out.

Nick is still kissing his shoulder gently, one of his hands sliding slick and wet across his belly. John’s free hand is stroking his hair gently, and he presses a kiss to his temple, murmuring against his hairline: “So hot. You are so, so hot.” 

Roger doesn’t answer, too busy trying to spark his brain back to life, so he just curls an arm around John’s neck and holds him close, hoping it says it all.

He tries to ignore the ache when John pulls out of him and away; tries to focus instead on the way John bodily props him up in Nick’s arms; arms that curl around him tightly. “D’you want another shower?” John asks him quietly, stroking a hand slowly down his spine. 

Roger shakes his head against Nick’s shoulder, the very thought of moving anywhere just impossible at that point, and mumbles: “Later. S’more sheets in the cupboard.” 

“Okay,” John says, “sleep now, Nick later, yeah?” 

Roger hums in agreement and then Nick’s pulling him down and John’s spooning up against his back and, once again, he finds himself between them, sleep starting to pull him under heavily. He feels one of John’s ankles slip between his own, and the last thing he sees is Nick’s eyes, looking right into him, and his small, tired smile.

* * * * * * * *

It’s hard to tell what time it is when he wakes next, the bedside lamp still on low and confusing any sense of night and day. He lies still and catalogues everything - John’s arm around his waist, Nick’s peaceful face, the faintly sticky feeling pretty much all over. He lifts his head enough to look at the alarm clock and relaxes when it peacefully glows ‘01:06’ back at him - still early. Lying back down, he concentrates on the slow, heavy thud of John’s heart against his back, and hopes it’ll lull him back to sleep. 

Ten minutes later, he’s kind of entranced by the feel of it but wide awake, his body still buzzing with adrenaline and anticipation. With carefully slow movements, he slides out from under John’s arm and moves down the bed, managing to get his feet on the floor without disturbing either of them.

The faint ‘snick’ of a door closing rouses Nick slowly, and he gazes with the confusion of sleep at John’s face. He’s so utterly not unused to waking up to that sight that it takes him a long moment to realise what’s changed, but when he does his heart falls over itself in a little skipped, nervous beat. ‘He’s gone’, he thinks, sitting up fast, light-headed. ‘We’ve screwed this up…’ 

He’s about to reach out and shake John awake when he sees the shaft of light coming from under the bathroom door, and then his ears finally wake up and he hears the water running and  _fuck_ . He slumps, running a hand across his eyes and trying to calm the panic in his chest. It’s just about working when he suddenly realises that Roger may still be there nearby but he might not be okay, and why is he awake already and why is he on his own? Closing his eyes for a second, Nick takes a deep breath and admonishes himself silently for worrying. Of course Roger is fine, Roger is  _always_  fine. He doesn’t need anyone to freak out about him on his behalf.

Carefully tucking some of the sheets around John’s slight shoulders, Nick eases himself up off the mattress and walks around the bed to get to the bathroom door, hesitating once or twice when the old wooden floorboards creak under his feet. ‘Does he want to be alone?’ he wonders, hand curling around the door handle. He curses himself for being so reticent and thinks briefly ‘What would John do?’, a smile crossing his face at the thought. 

He knows that if he doesn’t go in, he’’ll just keep on worrying, and if he does go in, the worst that could happen is that Roger will…His train of thought tails off. Roger will what? The very idea of Roger turning him away or being remotely annoyed with him is, he realises, ridiculous, and it’s that realisation that lets him open the door slowly. 

It’s still dimly lit in there, the tiles warm underfoot, steam rising up near the ceiling. There are no doors in this walk-in shower room, which means no opaque glass to obscure things. Roger is just there, facing the wall, his body still and his head tilted forwards into the spray of water, every curve and line and jut of his body picked out by light and shadow.

Nick doesn’t have to worry about startling him; as he closes the door, Roger turns his head to look at him over his shoulder, swiping the side of his hand across his forehead to push his hair out of his eyes. And he smiles. Of course he smiles. The tension in Nick’s insides eases up and he returns it, and it widens when Roger inclines his head, beckoning him closer.

“Any more showers and I’ll be out of bandages,” he muses, holding out his soaked hands. 

Nick looks at them in appraisal as he moves closer, then his eyes flick up to meet the dark ones watching him intently. “Are you alright?” he asks softly, taking hold of one of those hands between both of his. “I wondered where you’d gone.”

“Sorry,” Roger says, pressing their foreheads together. “Just couldn’t sleep. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Nick shakes his head. “You’re exhausted. Why can’t you sleep?”

Roger shrugs, holding still as Nick starts unwrapping his hand. “Might have had something to do with what happened a few hours ago. My heart hasn’t really slowed down yet.”

“We were meant to be wearing you out, not waking you up,” Nick says, dropping the bandage to the floor and starting on the other. The white cloth is blood spotted, but nowhere near as bad as the first set had been.

“You don’t need to worry,” Roger reassures him, dropping a kiss to the side of his temple. “I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long time.”

Nick looks up at him through dark lashes, blinking in surprise. “Really?”

“Really. And I still want you, too, okay?”

The last bandage slides to the floor and Nick holds Roger’s gaze steadily, taking in the heat in his dark eyes. “You have no idea how hard it’s been, waiting for you to say that again.”

“It’s never really gone away,” Roger says quietly, ruefully, his eyes dropping. “I just…I couldn’t, for a while, you know how it was. And then I thought that you and John were so good together, that me coming back into it would complicate things, and it just seemed simpler to trample it down and think of it as something that happened in the past. Something really, really fucking good that happened in the past.”

Nick listens to the flow of words in bewilderment, his hands coming up to hold either side of Roger’s head, bringing his jaw back up so that their eyes meet. “That was never going to happen, Rog,” he says with soft emphasis. “We never stopped wanting you back.”

“Sorry,” Roger murmurs again, “I’m not supposed to be getting all maudlin on you. Must be that fucking oxytocin stuff.”

Nick laughs quietly, sliding his fingers into the small of Roger’s back. “Madly in love with us, are you?”

“Never had much chance, did I?” Roger shoots back, before leaning in and kissing him, soft and slow. “Pretty bastards.”

Nick smirks into the kiss and presses both hands flat against his chest, feeling the sturdy spread of his ribcage. “We’re not doing this here, right?”

Roger shakes his head and reaches out to turn off the water. “Not without John.”

John is no longer asleep when they reappear. He’s sitting up in bed, the sheets wrapped around him - the perfect damn coathanger, whether it’s a vintage suit or a bloody bedsheet - and chewing on the side of his thumb. His knees are tucked under him and he looks…nervous, somehow, dark eyes flashing their way as soon as they walk back into the room. He’s clearly run his fingers through his hair a few times, trying to tame it back and succeeding in making himself a beautiful mess instead. He looks at them in question, and Nick knows suddenly that he’s not the only worrier amongst them, the set of John’s jaw saying it all.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, shaking his head to dispel whatever’s going through John’s head. “Everything’s fine. No one’s going anywhere.”

Roger leans down and kisses John gently. “Stop freaking out, okay? I was sticky.” He pulls back enough to meet John’s gaze and lowers his voice, suggestive and gravelly. “You both kind of came all over me, remember?”

And that’s John’s expression changing, eyes darkening as they drop down to Roger’s mouth. He reaches up, curling a hand tightly around the back of his neck, and pulls him back in.

Nick folds his arms and leans back against the wall, content to just watch them grapple on the bed, both of them laughing into the kiss as they fight for top spot. It takes him back, way back, to a hotel room in America, where he and Roger had done the same and both nearly brained themselves on the bedside table, their laughter as they hit the floor enough to make Simon bang a hand on the wall of the room next door and, eventually, come to join in.

One of the great things (of many) that Nick had loved about Roger, back in the day, had been his total lack of concern when it came to being flirted with, kissed and just generally groped by his bandmates. Okay, he was shyer than the rest of them, but he just slid right into it as though it was the most normal thing on earth. Which, for most people, they might’ve lunged for the pitchforks, although Nick had learned from the authority that was groupies that even just the idea of any of them together was, apparently, incredibly hot.

Many a time the cockier ones amongst them had sidled up to him and, while trying to provocatively curl a strand of hair around one finger, asked: “You know how you guys sometimes get really close on stage and stuff, do you ever…you know?  Together ?”

Nick had never classed himself as easily shocked, but the first time he’d heard that one his boat had rocked a little. Mostly because he’d had no idea that any of these teenaged girls would’ve even imagined it, let alone asked him about it, but partly because well, yeah.

Of course they did.

They were attractive, tactile, close, frequently intoxicated, staying in hotel rooms together, in strange lands where they didn’t know a soul - it didn’t take long for them to realise that they were each other’s nearest and easiest way to get off, no strings attached. Didn’t fancy the rigamarole of the adoring groupie that night? No worries, Nick or Simon or Roger or Andy was there, instead. Sometimes more than one of them. Once or twice, all of them.

And now it’s just the three of them, and Nick smiles when John wins the battle, his knees on either side of Roger’s hips, his hands pressing his wrists down above his head. He’s pretty sure Roger would have won if he’d actually been able to use his hands at all, but as it is, he doesn’t look too unhappy to be where he is. He lies still and Nick sees what that act of submission does to John; sees the way the muscles tense in his back and all hint of his smile fades away, replaced by a searching look of intent. Roger knows exactly what he’s doing, tilting his head back to show his throat, turning his hands palm-upwards as though in surrender.

“Oh, fuck you,” John exclaims gently, shaking his head, letting him go and sitting back on his heels to look down at him with a combination of desire and amusement. He curls his hands around Roger’s hips, where they fit so well, and runs his thumbs in circles around the bone before pressing down. Roger winces at the sharp, aching reminder of where John’s own hips had bruised his own, and John eases up on the pressure when he sees the frown.

“Sorry,” he says softly, leaning down to press a kiss to the centre of Roger’s breastbone, lips travelling upwards until he finds that spot where he’d bitten down on Roger’s collar bone earlier, a faint bruise already there. He licks it tenderly, once, twice, before latching back on, sucking on the delicate skin and reaching out blindly to the side at the same time. His fingers close around the little bottle, mercifully re-capped, and - without even lifting his head - he tosses it in a perfect arc across the room. Catching it easily, Nick smiles at the not-so-subtle hint and moves closer.

He leans down as he reaches the bed, and Roger leans up, propped on his elbows. With his head tilted up towards Nick, open and hungry, his kisses are so good, so hot and slow and deep. Nick licks at the sharp point of one of Roger’s canines before sliding his tongue across the roof of his mouth, working him open, pressing two fingers to the hinge of his jaw to feel it move against his.

He slides that hand down until his fingers find the mark John has made and Roger pulls away from the kiss sharply, dragging in a breath at the sore reminder. With one knee up on the bed, Nick leans down even further to press his lips to the same spot, hearing a quiet, throaty sound of appreciation from John and a quiet, throaty curse from Roger. Lifting his head, he looks at the positions they’re in and considers for a moment, eventually settling his eyes on John, who’s watching him and waiting for instruction.

“Pull him close to you,” he orders softly. “On his side, this time.”

John winds his arms around Roger and hauls him closer to the middle of the bed, and Roger just goes with it, lets himself be manhandled, but John can see the dark anticipation in his eyes; the way his heart has picked up and his breathing shallows. Nick has enough room to get on the bed now, stretching himself out along the length of Roger’s back, propped up on one elbow. He curls his other hand under Roger’s right knee and lifts it, hooking it over John’s hip - John’s hand meets his there, long fingers brushing against his knuckles before taking over the grip on Roger’s thigh and pulling him closer. The two of them are facing each other now, one of John’s arms underneath Roger’s neck to support him, one of Roger’s strapped up hands resting lightly on the curve of John’s ribcage, their eyes locked, dark and deep. John strokes his fingers around Roger’s ear gently, then cups his face and runs a thumb slowly under his eye, imagining he could chase away the darkness there, the darkness that still doesn’t manage to mar his perfect face.

The slick slide of fingers isn’t as bad the second time, and the only sign of what Nick’s doing is a faint frown of concentration on Roger’s face, his eyes closing and blocking him off from John, who wants to whisper “Look at me…”, but knows what it’s like, how hard it is to focus on the rest of the world when someone’s finger or tongue or cock is buried inside you. So he lies still, watching the swell of Roger’s heart below his ribs, and waits for him to come back.

He knows innately that Nick will take this slow; one of those long, slow fucks that drives you out of your mind. It’s not that that’s how Nick always does it - god, no - it’s just that they tend to be on the same wavelength and right now, if John was in his place, he’d make it last. And Roger’s tired, and hurt, and already fucked out, and perhaps a little more fragile than he’s making out, and Nick is so incredibly tuned in to all of them that John knows he’ll make it gentle. And he’ll make it fucking good.

Nick presses his forehead to Roger’s shoulder as he keeps working his fingers, curling them and feeling the shiver that runs down Roger’s spine, a full body shudder. “Ready?” he asks softly, running his free hand slowly from Roger’s ribs to his thigh, then back up to slide over onto his belly, pressing down against the flat plain. Roger nods, silent as he mirrors Nick’s move and trails his hand along the ridges and curves of John’s side.

“Is he looking at you, John?” Nick asks, as he carefully withdraws his fingers.

“No,” John says, his voice low and mesmerising. “He’s got his eyes closed. He’s concentrating on the feel of you. Waiting for you to fuck him, that hot, blunt push inside, that first shock of having someone deep inside…”

The short nails of Roger’s hand dig into John’s side suddenly as his chest hitches and his hips push back, spine curving, skin stretching over his ribs as he breathes in deep and tries to draw Nick in and drag John closer at the same time.

John finds his mouth, their noses bumping at the awkward angle, but Roger takes it like a lifeline, kissing him hard as Nick breathes “Oh, fuck,” against his neck, hand still stroking over Roger’s belly as though imagining how deep he is.

“There you are,” John says softly as Roger’s eyes flicker back to life, dazed and hazy and big and beautiful up close, colour blazing out of them. “Gorgeous.”

“Shut up,” Roger dismisses, his voice a raw crackle, but it’s the first thing he’s said for such a long time that John laughs at the perfect Rog-ness of it and the sheer relief of hearing something so normal.

“No,” he refuses in amusement, leaning back in to press a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, his chin, his mouth, “because you are, and I like telling you, so get used to it. Gorgeous.”

Roger’s about to retort when Nick’s hips thrust hard up against him and all he manages is a cut-off, inaudible sound of protest, the tips of his fingers scrabbling at John’s back .

“Fuck, Nick,” he grates, reaching behind himself to touch Nick’s back, trying to urge him closer, deeper, and John’s looking at them like they’re the most incredible thing in the world and Roger thinks for one absurd moment that he might just cry, because he can’t take it, can’t take  _them_ , and he slams his eyes shut again and tries to close down his brain, his traitorous, overly emotional brain. He’d been expecting to go home alone tonight and instead he’d ended up with both of them, wanting him, taking him, making him feel wrung out and so, so good. 

And his body feels like it’s too-sensitive, like everywhere they touch it burns and everywhere they don’t touch it’s cold, and how the hell is he meant to deal with that all over again?

He forces his eyes open again when a hand touches his face, and John’s got that hint of uncertainty in his gaze again. Roger shakes his head, reaching for him, bringing him close enough to mutter in his ear: “Don’t, fucking, stop…”

“You heard the man, Nick,” John murmurs. “Don’t fucking stop.”

Nick, clearly, has no intention of stopping. When he pushes forwards Roger pushes back, their bodies sinuous together, rhythmic, familiar. He’s pulling almost all the way out on every stroke, making each press inwards long and slow and unbearable, and John can see over Roger’s body that Nick’s eyes are closed too, a blissed out look of concentration on his face, his elegant hand stroking slowly up and down Roger’s chest in time with his hips. Roger’s eyes are fixed on John’s throat, now, dazed and completely gone, mesmerising in their unblinking beauty.

For now, John is happy just to watch, resting his hand on Roger’s hip and meeting Nick’s there, linking their fingers together tightly. He feels like the odd one out simply because they look so good together, and always have. So perfectly proportioned that their bodies fit together like they’re made for each other, slight and graceful and  _perfect_ . He and Simon have always found it hard not to feel protective of them, but they’ve never really needed it. They’re tough, both of them, like little bloody tenacious pitbulls in spirit - and strength - when they have to be. He sees that power in the way they move together, in the muscles that slide over bone in Roger’s arms, in the set of Nick’s jaw.

Roger’s eyes snap back to reality and the slight movement catches John’s attention, both of them gazing at each other hungrily. He hooks an arm around John’s waist and pulls him right up against himself with ease; close enough that they’re hip to hip and chest to chest, and he tucks his head in against John’s throat and rocks their hips together, breathing hot and damp against his skin, his hand clutching John close. John swears at the sudden, intense contact and presses his own hips forwards, his long fingers twisting hard against Nick’s as his cock slides against Roger’s, a hot, wet trail of precum against his belly.

Roger makes a soft sound of pleasure that shoots a spike of desire through John’s body, then he’s pulling his head up and whispering something obscene in John’s ear, forcing a laugh out of him even as the last of the blood in his brain heads south. Roger grins against his jaw, dark and devilish - John can  _feel_  it - and arches his back, forcing a similar, soft gasp out of Nick.

"God, you’re hot," John murmurs distractedly, watching a bead of sweat gather in the soft hollow between Roger’s collar bones. "God, you really fucking are."

Roger doesn’t argue this time, just closes the inch of space between them to kiss him, trailing the tips of the fingers of one hand slowly down John’s arm, brushing over the lines of muscle and tattoo and the soft dark hairs on his forearm, a touch that sends a shiver down John’s spine. The hand carries on down, running over ribs and flank, setting off every nerve in his side, but its path stutters and halts with every one of Nick’s thrusts, and John can see that Roger is slowly being undone by the intensity of it.

“Tell him, Nick,” he says, low and rough. “Tell him what he feels like.”

Nick presses his damp forehead between Roger’s shoulder blades, where sweat is starting to gather - it’s so hot in there now, so incredibly hot - and he can’t resist sliding his tongue in a vertical stripe, tasting salt and heat and mint.

“So good,” he breathes eventually, “so hot...”

And okay, he’s not at his peak of articulation but it’s hard to even  _think_  of words with Roger’s hips twisting back against him, his whole body one long line of hard muscle and bone, so easily drawing back into the curve of Nick’s body and then pressing hard into the sharp line of John’s, the push and pull and grind between all three of them like an undulating dance.

And it reminds him, suddenly, reminds him so much that he has to share it, the image from so long ago pushing him even closer to the edge.

“D’you remember that time in Texas, in that club,” he asks, words hot against Roger’s back, “when Simon dared us to dance together, in front of everyone? And you looked at me, and you grabbed my hand and we went out there and - “

“- and you did the hottest dance I’ve ever seen,” John finishes with a groan, seeing the sly smirk on Roger’s face at the memory. “It turned into the slowest, dirtiest fucking grind. God, the look on Simon’s face...”

“It was Roxy Music,” Roger says, closing his eyes as Nick’s hand slides up to press over his heart. “‘My Only Love’.”

“It was meant to be the last dance of the night,” Nick remembers, his words interspersed here and there with soft gasps. “The slow dance. But where was the fun in that?”

“It still ranks as one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen,” John says reverently. “All these girls watching you with this weird mix of lust and disappointment...”

Roger laughs, low and raw. “And Simon?”

“Impressed. Turned on. Same as me.”

“We were lucky not to get lynched,” Nick mumbles against Roger’s nape. “Especially when you took me outside and gave us a handjob in the alley.”

“Fuck!” John exclaims. “You didn’t?”

The dark smile on Roger’s face is all the answer he needs, and John presses their foreheads together, sighing heavily.

“Wish I’d seen that part too.”

“Didn’t last long,” Roger admits, tilting his head to press a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. “Not after that dance.”

“That very public foreplay,” Nick amends, amusement in every word.

“You should do it again,” John decides. “You should do it on stage in front of thousands of people. Every night. Or you could just do it for me. Every night.”

“We’re fucking right here in front of you,” Roger points out, the dry words choked when Nick presses up tight against his back, “isn’t that enough?”

“Well,” John says, sliding one of his hands slowly down and wrapping it around both of them, almost derailing his own train of thought at the sudden hot pressure. “Well...maybe, if you promise to do it every night...”

Roger doesn’t answer, just thrusts into his hand and makes a gritted sound of pure  _need_ .

“Only it’s my turn, next,” John keeps going, the words brushing against Roger’s lips. “And I want you. In the morning, I want you to screw the hell out of me, okay?”

Nick groans softly, his hips snapping forwards hard at the idea, his arm curling around the base of Roger’s throat as he just holds him and fucks him harder, the resulting gasp telling him he’s not the only one close to losing it. He props himself up on his other elbow and looks down, watching as Roger slides one of his hands slowly down his stomach through sweat and precum and brushes the back of his strapped up knuckles in a slow, gentle slide up the length of John’s cock, and that extra stimulation is all it takes before John’s coming and they’re pressed so close together that Roger’s covered in it and one, hot, slick thrust against John is all he needs to come too, his head tilting back against Nick’s shoulder as his body tenses and clenches and  _god_ ...

One of John’s great talents is still having the wherewithal to talk dirty even when he’s dizzy with orgasm, and as he and Roger kiss open-mouthed, breathing each other’s air, he mumbles words against Roger’s lips, his chin, his jaw, his wet, sticky hands pressing against Roger’s chest.

“He’s so close,” he’s saying, “he’s so close to coming, can you feel it? So hard and thick, and he’s going to come inside you, and you’ll have had both of us then, marking you, slick inside...”

And then Roger, voice soft and hoarse and desperate, says: “Please, Nick...”

and that’s more than Nick can handle. His last breath before he comes sounds almost like a choked off sob, and he just has time to feel one of John’s gentle hands wrap around the back of his neck before he can’t feel anything anymore, except the solid, hard strength of Roger’s body curled into the shape of his own, urging him on.

For a long time, all they can do is lie there, listening to each other’s heaving breaths, panting in the hot, sticky atmosphere that blankets them. It’s only when the heavy lull of sleep starts threatening that they start to move, reluctantly, apart. Roger unhooks his leg from over John’s hip with a soft grunt of discomfort and John rolls over onto his back, one long arm stretched out to the side.

“Fuck,” he exhales, staring up at the ceiling. “That was incredible.”

He turns his head on the pillow to look at Roger’s face, watching the faint twitch of his jaw as Nick carefully pulls out. He looks like he’s been on a two-day bender, faint shadow of stubble and dark under the eyes; he looks gorgeous. He shifts over to give Nick more room and they follow John’s lead, Nick lying on his back, Roger - unsurprisingly - on his front, his head pillowed on his folded arms. Nick turns his head enough to meet John’s eyes, and John smiles at him faintly - he looks totally debauched as well, blonde hair scrunched and green eyes hazy.

Reaching out, John slides his hand up the back of Roger’s neck, delving long fingers into his swear-spiked hair. “You think you can sleep, now?” he asks tenderly.

Humming something in the affirmative, his voice a low, soft rumble, Roger answers: “M’lying in a wet patch, though.”

Nick laughs warmly. “You’re kind of one big wet patch yourself.”

Roger grins against his forearm. “Good point.”

“I don’t think I can move,” John says, stretching his shoulders back lazily. “Do we have to move?”

“I don’t think I can sleep on this,” Nick says reluctantly. “It’s really damp over here...”

John groans, throws an arm over his eyes, then chuckles. “Fine. Okay. Moving.”  

Trying to get Roger to move is like trying to shift an old cat from its favourite sunny windowsill, his limbs uncooperative and heavy. Nick pulls him towards the edge of the mattress and John crawls after them, giving him a little push to help.

“Three times in one night, eh?” he remarks, curling an arm around Roger’s waist and bodily hauling him upright as Nick pads over to the wardrobe. “Takes it out of a guy.”

Roger mumbles something incoherent but apparently in agreement, and leans against the wall, moving to push a hand through his hair before remembering that he’s incapacitated. He frowns and John does it for him, sliding his long fingers in and leaving it appealingly mussed. Roger closes his eyes at the caress and John looks at him fondly for a moment before moving to strip the bed.

He leaves the sheets in a heap on the floor and helps Nick sort out the fresh ones, sharing a smile with him and brushing a brief kiss to his lips when they cross paths. They share a silent conversation, glancing from each other to Roger and back as they work. They’ve accomplished what they set out to do - taking care of him, reassuring him, exhausting him so thoroughly that he’ll finally get the sleep he needs - and now they get to hold him, sleep, and hope and pray that they get to keep doing it; that it’s the re-start of what they used to have.

“What day is it tomorrow?” John asks, taking a peek out of the blinds at the still-falling snow. “Sunday?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, sitting down at the end of the mattress. “We don’t have to be anywhere, thank god.”

John smiles at the thought, watching the white world for a moment longer before turning back to the bed. Roger’s crawling back on, too, stopping to press a kiss to the nape of Nick’s neck before collapsing in a heap face-down somewhere near the edge of the mattress. The heat in the air has cleared now and the new sheets are cool, and the need to be close draws them all back together again.  

John lies on his back and pulls Roger close, close enough that he can rest his head on John’s shoulder and sling an arm across his waist. His slowing, deep breaths ghost across John’s collar bones, warm and gentle. Nick curls in against John’s other side, their heads together on the pillow, his fingers finding one of John’s hands and linking them together. John presses a kiss to his forehead, and Nick leans across to do the same to Roger, and then the three of them fall still, just breathing together, letting sleep take over.


End file.
